


1-Rightful Owner

by WritestuffLee



Series: The Warrior's Heart, Volume 1, Early Days [1]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Action/Adventure, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-08-22
Updated: 1999-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:49:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritestuffLee/pseuds/WritestuffLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Qui-Gon and his apprentice go undercover to investigate slave trading in the Outer Rim Territories. Their roles fit them both a little too well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1-Rightful Owner

**Author's Note:**

> Artwork by Black Rose.

“This mission is going to be very hard on both of us, Padawan,” Qui-Gon informed his apprentice, his face unusually grave despite the truly exquisite taste in his mouth. He and Obi-Wan were in their quarters, sharing the evening meal Obi-Wan had prepared. Both of them regularly ate in the refectory with friends or each other while at the Temple, or occasionally ventured into the city itself. Tonight, with their leave drawing to a close, Obi-Wan had decided to do something for his master to show his appreciation for the time off he’d arranged for them. Mostly, he had just wanted to do _something_ for his master because, Qui-Gon suspected, he could not do what he most wished to.

The tension, sexual and otherwise, had been building between them for months and needed some sort of relief valve. Qui-Gon had hoped to be able to deal with it during this time at the Temple, but Obi-Wan had assiduously avoided the least mention of it, deftly changing subjects or needing abruptly to be elsewhere. Well, if the boy wasn’t ready to discuss it yet, it would do no good to force the issue, and truth was, Qui-Gon felt none too certain he was ready to discuss it himself. Even so, it would have been better to deal with it before this particular mission.

“I was hoping this assignment would be given to another pair,” Qui-Gon continued, “but the Council insists we’re their first choice and, since we are available and well-rested, I’m afraid it falls to us.” Qui-Gon went on, sipping the bowl of broth and anticipating what was in the bottom. Obi-Wan, even in the field, was an excellent cook. With the Temple’s facilities and Coruscant’s markets at his disposal he was superb.

“You make it sound as if they’re sending us to hell, Master. More wine?”

“Please. The next closest thing to hell, actually. We’re going to the Outer Rim Territories to look for slavers.” Qui-Gon fished out the tasty slivers of vegetables and meat from the bottom of his bowl, savoring them.

“That does sound unpleasant. These next.”

“What is this, Padawan? It smells wonderful.”

“Steamed buns with a spicy filling,” Obi-Wan replied. “Here’s the dipping sauce for them. They’re a bit on the hot side, and I don’t mean temperature. Rather like our next mission sounds,” and he grinned in a way both sly and coy. Qui-Gon felt his heart speed up for no good reason.

“Except that your food is very pleasant, and I don’t think ‘unpleasant’ even begins to describe our mission. We’ll be traveling incognito, obviously, since no one is going to sell slaves to or buy them from two Jedi.”

“We’ll be trading them ourselves?” Obi-Wan gawked, looking very young.

An expression of pain crossed Qui-Gon features, and not from the heat of the steamed buns, despite their bite. “I hope it won’t come to that. But I’m to pose as a Finder, with Senate funds in credits and hard cash and our own ship, which you’ll be piloting. We may, at some point, at least need to make a purchase to give some verisimilitude to our cover. I’d like to come back with one or two witnesses.”

Obi-Wan smiled inwardly. _Of course you would; it would mean one or two less creatures suffering in servitude._ Knowing Qui-Gon, they’d be lucky if they didn’t come home with a hold full of “witnesses.” At least it made some sense having Qui-Gon play a Finder. It was an occupation sometimes taken up by Temple initiates unchosen as padawans, since Force sensitivity made finding objects and people easier.

“It’s a directive from the Senate then, not a request from an individual system?” Obi-Wan asked, biting into one of the savory buns. _I outdid myself. These really are quite good. I’m glad._

“The Sentients’ Rights subcommittee. We’ll be making our report to them when we return. It’s a fact-finding mission only. We’re not to act on what we find, only gather information on the routes and most prominent dealers.”

“Oh.” Knowing his master, Obi-Wan realized this was going to be very hard indeed on Qui-Gon. Inside his stern, tightly controlled, calm exterior ran a wide river of empathy. His master felt very deeply for the lost and injured and had, indeed, often exasperated his apprentice in his insistence that they divert from the main course of a mission to help some troubled creature. Obi-Wan both loved his master for it and found it highly annoying in someone who was always telling him to focus. “And what role am I to play, Master?”

Qui-Gon set down his empty bowl, frowning, and took another sip of wine, staring into it, expression stony. “I don’t like it, but you’re to pose as my personal slave. The Council thought I should at least own one, if I am going to be dealing in them.”

“Indeed, Master.” Obi-Wan could not quite keep the smirk from his face. This was more likely to be a great deal of fun than a hardship.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Feels strange,” Obi-Wan grinned, brushing his hand over the short hairs at the back of his head and neck. His cauda was gone now, thanks to Qui-Gon’s straight razor. Only his braid remained to mark him as a Jedi padawan, and that had been woven with beads and bright colored threads, and tied off with a thin thong dangling shells and feathers. Qui-Gon had pierced one of his apprentice’s ears from top to lobe and threaded a coil of anodized titanium through the holes and healed them with a touch of the Force so it looked long-done. Instead of his plain Jedi leggings and tunic, he wore a loose emerald-green shirt with an open neck and wide sleeves cuffed at the wrists, tucked into tight black pants and black knee-high boots.

Qui-Gon was similarly, if not as gaudily, transformed. Obi-Wan had braided his hair tight to his skull and into a thick braid down his back, tied off with another feathered thong. One ear was pierced with a bluefire stud, and his shirt was a cobalt blue that picked up the color of his eyes and made them more piercing under the deep brow. He looked hard and cruel in black and blue, his features unsoftened by the heavy mass of hair he usually wore around them—but also heartbreakingly handsome, at least to his apprentice.

“We’ll keep the cloaks,” Qui-Gon said, “but I’ve drawn us two black ones from stores. I’ll have a blaster in plain sight, which we won’t use unless there’s no other choice, and my lightsaber in the shoulder sheath.” This was an uncomfortable harness contraption that let the hilt of the saber sit between the wearer’s shoulder blades so it could be drawn from under the neck of a shirt or jacket, and required some practice to use safely. “Yours I’ll carry under my cloak, since you’ll be unarmed. I want it where you can get at it easily.”

“What if it’s seen?”

“Then I’m a rogue Jedi who’s left the order.”

Obi-Wan grimaced. “There’s a few who already think you are.”

“But no one would ever believe it of you, Padawan, even if you weren’t my slave.”

“Too young, you mean.”

“And too angelic, I daresay,” Qui-Gon smiled.

Obi-Wan felt his face flush and his master smiled wider. “I’d think you were enjoying this if I didn’t know you better,” he muttered.

“There’s very little I’m going to enjoy about this, Padawan. I might as well enjoy looking at you. You’re very pretty in that get-up.”

It was all Obi-Wan could do not to squirm under his Master’s eye. This was going to be much worse than he imagined if Qui-Gon insisted on mock-flirting with him. A few years ago, Obi-Wan would have enjoyed the banter but it was suddenly hard to bear as a joke. “What about names, Master?” he said desperately changing the subject.

“I think we shall keep the ones we have. Neither of us are well enough known in these circles in to be recognized, and it will make the role-playing simpler. Calling me Master won’t be out of character either. How long have I owned you, boy?” Qui-Gon’s voice abruptly sharpened and dropped, losing all warmth.

“Four years, Master,” Obi-Wan replied sullenly, falling into character. “You took me from a colony on Lesath raided by pirates. Six of us survived. You decided to keep me and sold the rest off, including my younger brother.”

“Very good, Padawan,” Qui-Gon encouraged in his normal tones. “Did you get the dummy implant put in?”

“Yes, Master. Harmless, of course, but it will look like a real slaver tracking device on the appropriate scan.” Obi-Wan fell back into character. “If it weren’t for that, I’d be gone in a heartbeat, but not before cutting your throat.”

“Bloodthirsty little bastard.” Qui-Gon’s grin was feral. “Don’t know why I keep you.”

“Perhaps because you like fucking me so much . . . Master.” Two could play at fake flirting. Only in his case, Obi-Wan wasn’t sure how much of it was fake.

He thought he saw a slight flush creep into his master’s face. _There,_ he thought, _payback for dressing me up like this and enjoying it._ But he’d barely time to think that before Qui-Gon had shoved him hard against the wall and taken his jaw in one hand, trapping him with the weight of his body, one muscular thigh grinding into his groin. Normally he would have enjoyed the sensation—reveled in it, even, since it was as close as he was likely to get to what he wanted—but this was clearly a threatening move, and the man making it a stranger.

“I would hate to have to put a stun collar on that pretty neck of yours, my boy,” Qui-Gon hissed, moving his hand down from jaw to throat and tightening it. “But I will, if you don’t watch your tongue. Do I make myself clear?”

“Y-yes, Master,” Obi-Wan croaked, eyes wide, heart pounding. Who was this man?

Qui-Gon stepped back, drew in a deep breath and reached to touch his apprentice’s throat again. Obi-Wan flinched away, but the fingers on his skin were gentle and warm with the Force. “That’s the sort of treatment you’re likely to receive from me during this mission, Padawan. Or worse. We’re running with a ruthless crowd and in this guise, I cannot afford to worry about your feelings. I did not want the roles dealt this way, but the Council felt it made a better cover, and little as I like it, I think they are probably right. I’ll do and act as I must for the success of the mission, without hurting you unnecessarily. I’ve no plans to purposely endanger you, but it may come to that. It has before, little as I’ve liked it. But I want you to remember, Obi-Wan, no matter what I say or do, it’s merely the role. I would never hurt you or demean you. You’re my padawan, and my friend. Nothing will ever change that. Do you understand?”

Obi-Wan shook himself. “Yes, Master. I understand.” _But what if I want it to change?_ “It will take some getting used to.”

“For both of us, Padawan,” Qui-Gon agreed and left it at that.

Maybe this wasn’t going to be so much fun after all.

~~~~~~~~~~

From the moment they stepped aboard the _Asura,_ Obi-Wan knew for certain he’d been sent to hell. As agreed, they assumed their roles when the hatch closed, and the last civil words Qui-Gon spoke to him were “May the Force be with you,” as they walked up the ramp. Once inside, Qui-Gon’s shields slammed down and his master pushed past him to the captain’s quarters and ensconced himself in their relative luxury while his apprentice went to the cockpit to do the preflight. He’d done the walkaround earlier in the day and again just before they boarded, finding the ship basically sound if weatherbeaten. Once a smuggler’s light freighter, it had been confiscated and its cargo holds refitted for the present mission. Obi-Wan suspected it had been Corellian-owned because it was well care for and heavily armed for its size. The crew’s quarters were stripped down, but comfortable enough. Not that it mattered. It looked like he’d be spending much of the trip in the cockpit, simply to avoid his master.

Their first stop was a world situated between Hutt space and the Outer Rim Territories, and for most of the trip, his master ignored him. The rare times they spoke, Qui-Gon’s voice was cold and haughty or deeply cutting, so much unlike his master that Obi-Wan wondered where he had found this person to inhabit his flesh. Usually, there was some contact between them through their training bond or thought-to-thought, even on delicate missions, but Qui-Gon had raised his shields and closed him out the moment the hatch slammed shut, as though he wanted not the least bit of empathy or feeling for his apprentice to crack his façade. Once they docked, his treatment of Obi-Wan only grew worse.

It wasn’t unusual on missions for the padawan to take care of the menial tasks like arranging for quarters and unpacking them or seeing to docking arrangements if they had their own ship, so he wasn’t surprised the same tasks fell to him now. But on other missions, Qui-Gon assumed he had a competent apprentice who could perform his work without needing to be told how, and never let Obi-Wan’s help pass without thanks. The master he served now berated him constantly and was grateful for nothing; everything he did was wrong. He had thought he would be able to shrug it off as simply part of their mission, but it became increasingly more difficult to do so as Qui-Gon remained scrupulously in character. He felt alone and adrift, unsure of himself, cut off from the bond with his master. It made his own role as a sometimes rebellious but increasingly demoralized slave that much easier, but no less painful.

Their investigation led them to several worlds, each with underground markets dealing in “laborers” of every sort, most of them Hutt-controlled, a fact which was no surprise to either of them. Most of the “merchandise,” they discovered, was coming in from slavers raiding small, isolated colonies throughout the Rim, worlds newly settled and unaffiliated with the Republic, but often harboring homesteaders who had once been citizens. The majority were human, but there were a number of non-human and humanoid species as well. Whomever was unlucky enough to be caught on the ground when the slavers landed was swept up or killed. The same dozen names cropped up again and again, supplying the same dealers on the same worlds. Buyers’ names were more difficult to come by, but their list was growing. A disturbing number of slaves were disappearing into the Corporate Sector, in large lots.

After three tens, they made what Qui-Gon determined would be their last stop, on Dschubba, another Hutt-controlled system, out of which, they were told, the largest of the slave markets was run, and where they hoped to deal directly with at least one of the slavers or marketers, or find willing witnesses who could identify them and purchase their freedom. By this time, Obi-Wan could hardly wait to return to Coruscant. During the last three weeks, he had been manhandled and slapped and shoved and humiliated in public, and ignored in private. As often as he told himself it was only the role, it lessened the pain very little. It felt too much like rejection, if not outright contempt. Qui-Gon wore this mask too well for his taste, and he was starved for the contact of their training bond and civil conversation.

That evening, they made the rounds of the local cantinas and bars, Obi-Wan fetching his master’s food and drinks and kneeling subserviently on the disgusting floor behind his chair, hating every moment of it. Qui-Gon made his own discreet inquiries at the bar and spoke with traders and smugglers and petty thieves—but no slavers. There were rumors of course. There were always rumors. But slave trading carried one of the stiffest penalties the Republic could hand out, so confirming those rumors was an involved process on each world they’d stopped on. Tracking them to the source was even more difficult.

The pair dragged back to their rooms late that evening or early the next morning, depending on the point of view, after fruitless hours of skulking questions and wasted time and money. Obi-Wan slept on the floor for the remainder of that night, badly, on a pallet at the foot of his master’s bed, his dreams—Force visions, really—full of anguished faces, terrified screams, blaster fire, and the hum of a lightsaber.

They rose before dawn for a tour of the markets, black and otherwise, finding foodstuffs, illegal weapons, handicrafts, intoxicants, live and dead animals, arms wholesale and retail with or without the serial numbers obliterated, stolen goods, droids, prostitutes, jewelry, genuine imitations of everything valuable, real antiques—but no slaves. Only more rumors of them, but this time, one that was particularly intriguing and very disturbing: Somewhere, apparently, was a slaver who dealt in Force-sensitives.

Obi-Wan felt his master’s anger coalesce out of nothing at the Duro sitting across from him, then felt him let it go into the Force and his shields slam closed once again. The released rage brushed by him like the x-ray shockwave from an exploding star, invisible and burning, but it was somehow a relief. Inside those shields, his master was still a Jedi, still warm and feeling. Obi-Wan added his own sudden anger to it, following his master’s example. Force sensitives. Bad enough the dealing in sentient lives at all, as though something as marvelous as the unique combination of spirit and breath and body were merely a commodity to be bought and sold. He knew it shouldn’t make a difference; all life was equally precious. But somehow it did. These were people like them, attuned to the Force, gifted. Enslaved for something that should only bring them joy.

“What is his name, this dealer?” Qui-Gon demanded.

“That will cost you, human,” the Duro replied, expression unreadable. His greed, however, was impossible to overlook, with or without the Force.

Out of patience, Qui-Gon passed his hand over the tabletop as though caressing some invisible creature and projected his will into the humanoid’s mind. “You are most generous. It will cost me nothing and you will tell me gladly.”

“Never let it be said Marbu is not generous. I’ll tell you gladly, human, for nothing. His name is Khamor MalDurzi.

“And where can he be found? You would tell me that also.” Qui-Gon made another pass with his hand.

The Duro shook his head, confused. “If I knew, I would say, Ser Jinn.”

Frustrating.

“Go. Buy yourself something to make you forget we’ve spoken.” Qui-Gon shoved a credit chip across the table, making a third pass.

Qui-Gon began paying for the rumors then and letting it be known he’d pay for more accurate ones. Dubious characters of all sorts all but lined up to oblige him. Obi-Wan never thought his master’s diplomatic skills would be used quite this way, but with a combination of cajolery, flattery, outright coercion, and a somewhat unscrupulous use of the Force, it was neither difficult nor expensive—only time-consuming—to find the right rumors. Qui-Gon pursued the search like a man possessed. His apprentice followed him with equal fervor, for once. It might be something of a sidetrack from their main mission, but he agreed with Qui-Gon that, in the Council’s viewpoint, it would be a vital piece of information.

The purchased and extracted rumors led them, over the course of many days, to other rumors, and those rumors to all the levels of Dschubba’s underworld: the back rooms of certain cantinas; from thence to an illegal sabaac table in a ramshackle warehouse; to a vast dreamtime den in an abandoned building lit only by the flames touched to hundreds of smokebowls; and from thence to a brothel—one of a string of them—and from thence to the brothels’ owner.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Hutt who owned them was young, still serpent-quick and relatively lean, as Hutts go, massing only perhaps twice as much as Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan together and boasting twice their combined ages. Unlike the greater Hutts, this one spoke for himself, rather than through a protocol droid or officially designated Mouth. Durga’s Basic was as good as Qui-Gon’s, though his voice reverberated through the room lik

“Great Ser Durga,” Qui-Gon bowed when led to the room by a Rodian lackey. Obi-Wan was only a moment slower in following suit but Qui-Gon cuffed him hard anyway. His apprentice flinched away and mumbled an apology, sounding thoroughly broken and submissive. It made Qui-Gon’s heart clench. He had purposely cut himself off from his padawan from the start of this mission, knowing that with even their usual bond it would be much more difficult to achieve the appearance of casual cruelty he sought to project in this role. What he hadn’t expected was how much he needed Obi-Wan to know it was merely a role. That was something he would have to examine later, in his own meditations. But for now, the mission was paramount.

“My thanks for granting this audience.”

“What brings you to me, Ser Jinn?” The Hutt rumbled. “I don’t often see customers myself. Ulrug knows not to waste my time.”

“I am not, in a sense, a customer, Ser Durga,” Qui-Gon replied. “I seek advice. Your brothels are spoken of as the finest in the Rim Territories, and while I have no wish to compete with you, I have a commission from a client with rather special tastes. I find I am having some difficulty filling it, and I pride myself on always providing what my clients want.”

“You’re a dealer then, Ser Jinn?”

“A very select dealer. A Finder.”

The Hutt’s eyes dilated and his laugh made small objects dance across their tabletops. “Oh ho. A Finder. What happy coincidence. I have need of a Finder.”

“I would be pleased to make a business arrangement with you, Ser Durga, but it must needs wait until I fulfill this commission, and for that I need your help.”

“Perhaps we could come to a mutually beneficial agreement, then. Tell me what you seek.”

“My client is looking for an assistant to do very sensitive work. Strong, young, high pain tolerance, agile, a quick study and a quick healer.”

“Gender? Species?”

“Not that particular but the preference is for humanoid.”

“I confess I’m puzzled, Ser Jinn. None of these qualities are in particularly short supply. Perhaps you have more to tell me?”

“The assistant my client seeks should also be an empath or telepath—trained or untrained, but fairly gifted.”

“Ah, much more difficult to find. The Jedi take so many of them at young ages, and they are so rarely found to begin with.”

“Precisely, Ser Durga.”

“I begin to see your difficulty. However, I may have a solution for you, or at least the name of a dealer who could help you.”

“Khamor MalDurzi. I have heard of him. But finding him is another matter.”

“Perhaps I can help you with that. For a price.”

“I would be happy to compensate you for your efforts on my behalf, Ser Durga. Say, 500 Republic credits? Or cash of your choice.”

“I was thinking more in terms of a deal, Ser Jinn. What is this pretty one to you?” the Hutt said, gesturing in Obi-Wan’s direction. It wasn’t hard to fake a flinch, or wide-eyed fear.

Qui-Gon’s face was a bored mask. “A servant, merely. He pilots and sees to my needs. Why do you ask?”

“Then perhaps we could arrange a loan in exchange for this information, if he is only a servant?” the Hutt said, stroking an oily finger along Obi-Wan’s jaw, leaving a streak of slime behind. He shuddered and jerked away, distaste plain on his face. “I have a client of my own who would fancy a night with one like this.”

Qui-Gon smiled lazily and stroked his knuckles along Obi-Wan’s cheek, wiping the slime away. At first, his apprentice flinched away then leaned into the touch and looked as if he didn’t know whether he loathed or desired it. “I prefer not to share,” his master said.

The Hutt laughed again, rattling the curios once more. “Very well. Let me see the shape of your currency. And come back to me when you’ve done with this job. I have another for you.”

“It is a pleasure doing business with Your Greatness, Ser Durga,” Qui-Gon lied smoothly.

Once payment had been negotiated and they were outside the brothel, they had walked only a few paces before Qui-Gon rounded on his apprentice, slapping him with an open hand hard enough to send him reeling into a wall. The slap was doubly shocking as Obi-Wan was still basking in that brief touch of affection and ownership, however feigned it was. “Don’t ever embarrass me like that again, boy,” he snarled as Obi-Wan cowered back against the rough ferrocrete surface. _//Obi-Wan, let me in.//_

“Master?” _//Master?//_ Word and thought echoed together, undertones of both pain and relief in both of them.

 _//I’m sorry. I had to get your attention.//_ “Flinching away from me like that. You’re mine. Do you understand? I’ll do with you as I like, and you’ll be grateful for it.”

“Yes, Master. I’m sorry, Master,” Obi-Wan sank to his knees in the muddy alley, the picture of abject submission and fear. “Please forgive me, Master.”

 _//Keep our link open tomorrow, when we go to see this slaver. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I have a bad feeling about it.//_ “Get up, you fool. Have you no more brains than a nerf, kneeling in the dirt like that? You’re becoming more trouble than you’re worth. Perhaps I should have let the Hutt have you after all.”

 _//I don’t like it either.//_ “No, Master! Please! I’m sorry—” Obi-Wan turned panic-stricken eyes on his master, clutching his cloak. “Don’t sell me. I’ll do whatever you ask.”

Qui-Gon grabbed a fistful of hair and dragged Obi-Wan to his feet with it. “Shut up, you groveling fool. Go clean yourself up and find a meal for me. I’m hungry and tired and have the stink of Hutts on me.”

“Yes, Master. Right away, Master,” Obi-Wan sniveled, hurrying away. _//I’ve missed you, Master,//_ he sent before disappearing around a corner at a trot.

~~~~~~~~~~

Khamor MalDurzi was a twisted nightmare of a man, human, but barely recognizable as so under a mass of facial and body scars and prosthetics that had left him hairless, blind in one eye, his mouth loose and drooling, useless for speech. One arm was shrunken and contorted, yet still apparently quite strong, and he walked with a dragging limp and posture deformed by a crooked spine. A voder implant was attached to his throat and it was from this that his voice, tinny and flat, issued. He was also very strong in the Force himself, which explained why he specialized in Force sensitives. His mind was strongly shielded from Qui-Gon’s probings, which suggested some sort of training, or long years of trial and error. The two of them circled one another verbally, obviously both aware of each other—and of Obi-Wan—through the Force. There was no possibility of Qui-Gon and his apprentice using their bond to communicate without the slaver knowing. Both closed their shields tightly.

Qui-Gon presented the cover story he had given to Durga the day before, casting himself as a Finder and Obi-Wan as his servant.

“This one’s a fine specimen himself,” MalDurzi responded to Qui-Gon’s request, nodding in Obi-Wan’s direction. “Why don’t you sell him?”

Qui-Gon wrapped his fingers in Obi-Wan’s braid, jerking him back hard until his apprentice was leaning against him, not quite squirming in the embrace but arching slightly away from Qui-Gon’s body, so there was as little contact as possible. His face was impassive, but he was still obviously reluctant. “The offer was made,” Qui-Gon admitted, “but this one’s not for sale,” Qui-Gon said, closing one arm possessively around Obi-Wan’s waist and sliding the fingers of his hand down the front of his apprentice’s tight pants, pressing him back against his body, stroking the ragged end of the braid down his cheek and neck with the other, rubbing his beard against Obi-Wan’s temple. “I’ve grown rather attached to him.” His apprentice shivered and closed his eyes, his breathing a little faster, unreadable, locked tightly behind his own shields. MalDurzi cackled, rather horribly, through his voder. “However, someone like him wouldn’t be amiss. What stock do you have?”

“I’ve three new ones in today. Have a look.”

Qui-Gon let him go without a second thought and Obi-Wan stumbled along behind, so aroused by his master’s overtly sexual embrace that he could hardly think. He wanted so badly to be touched that way in earnest, not this playacting. Somehow it was both humiliating and terribly erotic. It just might kill him if Qui-Gon did it one more time and left him hanging like that.

The slaver led them to a dank subcellar sunk well below street level. Inside it, blinking in the unaccustomed light, were two human youngsters and a Devaronian child of about four. They were filthy and terrified, but largely unharmed, though their fear was strong enough to choke any Force sensitive within a hundred meter radius. Qui-Gon felt his heart clench in pity and anger. Obi-Wan crept from his side, as though hoping he wouldn’t be noticed, and knelt next to the forcefield separating them from their freedom, projecting comfort and warmth. The wave of need and desperation that came back to him, raw and uncontrolled, nearly knocked him over.

“They’re very strong, Master, both of them, and the little one, too,” he said hesitantly, as though afraid he’d overstepped his bounds.

“I might consider a trade . . .” the slaver offered again.

“No. I’ve said this one’s not for sale.”

“Say, the two humans for your boy? They’re brother and sister.”

“Not for sale, Ser.”

“Pity. I might throw in the child, too.”

Qui-Gon hesitated, calculatedly glancing in Obi-Wan’s direction. His apprentice’s eyes locked with his, widened in feigned panic, but that look was all his master needed. “No master, please. You can’t—”

“Silence!” Qui-Gon reached out and casually backhanded his padawan, who reeled back, hands flying to the hot and bruised skin, whimpering. “Let me see what else you have. Perhaps we can strike a deal. But he’s worth a great deal more than three youngsters, tiresome as his whining is becoming. I’ve invested much time and effort in his training.”

MalDurzi smiled, or what passed for it on that face. “I’m sure you have, Ser Jinn. All right then. Bring him round to the market tomorrow night. In the warehouse behind Docking Bay 32. After dark.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Padawan,” Qui-Gon said later when they were alone in their rooms, breaking character for the first time in tens. “Are you certain?”

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation. “It won’t be much work to get away from him. After I’ve found out where he’s getting them from.”

“Unless he drugs you unconscious until you’re off-planet, or puts a real tracking device in you, or any of a thousand other things.”

“It’s worth the risk. At least we’ll be able to get someone out of this nightmare. Those two in that cellar, they’re not much younger than I am. And the little one . . .”

“He’s still of an age to bring to the Temple,” Qui-Gon finished.

There was no further discussion.

~~~~~~~~~~

The slave market was hot and close but well-lit for the middle of the night. It occupied an empty hangar behind the docking bay and was crammed with dealers herding groups of cowed humanoids and others with prod sticks, stun collars, and verbal abuse. Qui-Gon and his apprentice passed the obligatory wall of toughs hired by the Hutts to act as security and walked through the building cataloging and observing everything, committing faces and overheard names to memory, heartsick and, at least in Obi-Wan’s case, choking back anger. Qui-Gon seemed cooly imperturbable, watching everything while seeming to ignore it all, and affecting a thoroughly jaded air to boot. They found MalDurzi near the auction block with a small gaggle of mostly human youngsters in tow. None of them were older than sixteen—the two they had seen yesterday—and a few were mere toddlers. Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan exchanged a look, realizing how young MalDurzi’s “stock” was. Half of them could still be trained at the Temple. There was no question of leaving any of them behind, regardless of what they had to do.

In the end, Qui-Gon bargained only for the two oldest ones he had seen the day before, and another very young human girl of about four who had somehow been overlooked by Jedi scouts, one who had truly extraordinary telepathic and telekinetic abilities. The moment Obi-Wan had touched her mind, she had flung herself against him in relief, sensing safety. He stood holding her now, soothing her and petting her, tickling her with his braid and whispering silliness into her ear, making her giggle through drying tears, probably for the first time since she had been taken.

Qui-Gon almost smiled, watching him. Someday he would be that good with his own padawan. He turned a cold eye on the slaver. “I’ll take these three, though I’d hoped for someone older. The brother and sister will do for me and the little one has some uses, but my client requires someone with more stamina, an adult.”

“Adults are hard to find,” MalDurzi shrugged in his lopsided way. “The Jedi take them young and twist their minds until they’re useless. The young ones like this you can mold. I do have one older one—about this one’s age—that I’ve not been able to sell, but she’s unmanageable. However, if you care to look I’ll have her brought out.”

Qui-Gon agreed and MalDurzi’s assistant, a sturdy looking Sullustan, lumbered off, returning a few minutes later dragging a young woman a little older than Obi-Wan. Her blonde hair was filthy and had been shorn off and grown back raggedly, but both Jedi recognized her at once for what she was—the junior half of a master-padawan pair who had gone missing a year before. There was a stun collar around her neck and the flesh was burned and angry beneath it, her face was bruised from blows, and there were stun binders on her wrists. The Sullustan forced her to her knees and she looked up at Qui-Gon dully, not drugged or hopeless, but worn and sick. He laid the back of his hand on her forehead, feeling the heat of fever, and telling her with touch alone through the Force who he was. She didn’t react visibly, but he felt a spark of fierce hope from her. She turned to look at Obi-Wan with feverish but clearing eyes, acknowledging his presence, telling them both she knew who they were. He planted a kiss on the cheek of the child in his arms and whispered something in her ear, by way of reply. The little one turned to look at her too, nodding to Obi-Wan’s whispers.

“This one’s ill and damaged, not just unmanageable,” Qui-Gon objected.

“A small fever only, Ser. A dose of anti-infectives and she’ll be fine. The rest are merely superficial injuries. I’m nearly giving her to you.”

Qui-Gon took her chin in his hand, peeled back her eyelids, then pulled her to her feet. She struggled under his hands, but only half-heartedly. “Stand still, little bitch, or I’ll have you stunned again,” he growled, shaking her. She collapsed against him, apparently half-fainting; Qui-Gon used the Force to snap her cuffs open while her hands were out of sight between them, whispered “There’s a blaster under my cloak. We may need to get out of here quickly,” into her ear and set her upright again, one hand squeezing her ass. Keeping her hands together so the cuffs still appeared closed, she glared at him and snarled, “Not if you were the last cock available, you piece of slaver shit.”

Qui-Gon laughed. “Oh, I like this one, yes. I want to know what sickness she’s got, but I think I’ll take her, if it’s nothing serious.”

“In trade for the boy, yes?”

“With the other three we agreed upon.”

“Well, Ser, that’s a bit steep . . .” MalDurzi began. They dickered a bit longer, Qui-Gon adding cash to the transaction before they agreed on a final price. Qui-Gon ran a medical scan on the other padawan, confirming she had only a slight fever, probably from the burns on her neck.

“Now, if you’re satisfied, Ser Jinn, let me inspect your goods before we make our trade. Take them off,” MalDurzi said, plucking at the waist of Obi-Wan’s pants.

They had both hoped to avoid this, but it wasn’t unexpected. Qui-Gon himself had done a cursory physical inspection with a mediscanner and by gentle and reassuring touch of the three youngsters before agreeing to trade his apprentice. He watched his padawan’s face for signs of panic or ambivalence, but found none. He seemed, instead, as resigned to his fate as any slave would be. Obi-Wan’s shields were closed tightly and Qui-Gon could neither reach nor read him.

Obi-Wan set down the child he’d been holding, herding her toward the two older “purchases” with a reassuring pat. He glared at Qui-Gon, who forced himself to lean casually back against the auction platform as his apprentice stripped off and dropped his cloak to the ground, then his shirt, his boots, and finally his pants and underclothes with an air of determined anger. Then he stood calmly, his face impassive.

 _Lords he’s beautiful,_ Qui-Gon caught himself thinking and felt a little ashamed. But he was beautiful, standing there in nothing but his dignity, less naked than the man looking him over with obvious greed and lust, as though he were merely a piece of meat, a thing to be used and used up.

MalDurzi watched the disrobing with avid interest, his gaze traveling feverishly up and down Obi-Wan’s almost perfect body, such a contrast to his own. When Qui-Gon’s apprentice was naked, the slaver shuffled slowly around him as Obi-Wan stood quietly, his chin up, breathing evenly. _Doing meditations,_ Qui-Gon guessed. MalDurzi walked around him once, looking, then a second time running both hands around his ribcage and waist and hips, thumping lightly and kneading flesh and bones, slapping his ass. Obi-Wan bore it without flinching or changing expression. The slaver stopped in front of him, pulled his jaw open, shoved a finger into his mouth, feeling teeth and tongue and gums, then wiping the spit off on Obi-Wan’s own cloak. Not the barest look of distaste crossed the younger Jedi’s face. “Look up,” the slaver said, pulling back his eyelids, then, “Down.” Obi-Wan blinked a few times when he was released, but that was the entirety of his reaction.

 _He acts like he’s used to this,_ Qui-Gon thought, impressed with his apprentice’s control.

Then MalDurzi grabbed his balls and Obi-Wan started a little, but quickly recovered himself. Even when he squeezed, Obi-Wan let out only a small hiss of pain. “Nice equipment,” the slaver observed. “Bend over and spread, boy.”

Hesitating only a second or two, Obi-Wan did as he was told. MalDurzi sprayed a coat of surgical barrier over his good hand, waited for it to gel, and unceremoniously shoved two fingers into Obi-Wan’s rectum. His apprentice only grunted a little but it was all Qui-Gon could do to keep from drawing his lightsaber and cutting the slaver’s heart out and feeding it to him. _Better yet, the bastard’s balls,_ he thought darkly, dismayed by his own strong reaction.

“Cough, boy,” the slaver said. Obi-Wan obliged. “Tight as a Hutt’s purse and hung like a gundark,” MalDurzi said appreciatively, withdrawing his fingers, peeling off the layer of rubbery gel and discarding it. “And you’ve taken good care of him, Ser Jinn. Fed him well. Made him exercise. He’s built like a fighter.” And suddenly, more quickly than either of them anticipated, MalDurzi had Obi-Wan on his knees in a chokehold, a vibroshiv pressed to his ribs, drawing a thin trickle of blood. Any sort of move would split open ribs and lung and liver in less time than it took to blink. “But he would be,” MalDurzi hissed, “a lovely little padawan like this, in his prime. Did you think I would not know my own merchandise, Jedi? I’ve had this one long enough to know her ilk.”

Qui-Gon could hear the crowd beginning to murmur in the background and the word he kept hearing was “Jedi.” In a moment, they would be a mob and not a crowd, and he and these two padawans—not to mention the others they hoped to rescue—would be the focus of its agitation. But there were other players he hadn’t counted on.

“Don’t hurt my friend!” the little one Obi-Wan had been holding yelled, stamping her feet, and the shiv was wrenched from MalDurzi’s hand, landing out of reach.

Quick as thought, Qui-Gon dove for the slaver, grabbing him by the throat and shoving him up against the auction block. “Try to cheat me, will you?” he roared. “Cheat me in a crowd like this, you little vermin? I’ll have the Hutts on you faster than I could slice you open!” Qui-Gon called the shiv to him, pressing it underneath MalDurzi’s chin. His assistant had disappeared at the first sign of trouble. _//I would have bought them from you honestly, slaver, but now you’ll forfeit all of them, and make no protest, do you understand?//_ Qui-Gon told him silently. _//Unless you’d like to accompany us back to Coruscant like one of your own stock.//_

The slaver quivered in Qui-Gon’s grasp, all bravado leaking out of him. “Please not all—”

Qui-Gon choked him off. _//Silence. Yes, all of them. The ones you’ve hidden, too.//_ As brutally as he’d pushed the slaver against the auction block, he pushed his way inside the slaver’s shields, feeling only the slightest twinge of conscience about it. _//You’ll take us to them,//_ he “suggested.” _//You’re very sorry, Ser Jinn, and you’ll be happy to make it up to me. You’ve just the item I’d like, if only I’d come with you. Your assistant will hand this lot over to my mine.//_

Eyes a little glazed, MalDurzi repeated Qui-Gon’s phrases, looking around for his assistant. Obi-Wan, in the meanwhile, had grabbed the opportunity to put his clothes back on, once he was sure his master had things in hand. The other padawan watched them both, waiting. Quick as he was about getting dressed, his shirt was still hanging open and untucked when MalDurzi’s assistant reappeared with the Hutt’s hired security toughs.

“Jedi,” the commander—a scarred Barabel whose tail had been lopped short in some unfortunate incident—called, fanning his disreputable squadron of goons out around the little group. The crowd closed in behind them, curiosity, bloodlust and greed propelling them. Even before Qui-Gon replied, bets were being laid with long odds on the survival of Qui-Gon and his “servant.”

“There are no Jedi, here,” Qui-Gon said mildly. “My good friend Khamor misspoke. We’ve had a slight misunderstanding. No—”

The Sullustan chittered frantically, gesturing wildly at his employer and Qui-Gon.

“Not what ‘e sez, Jedi.”

Qui-Gon waved a hand. “There are no Jedi here,” Qui-Gon repeated, without much hope that his influence would work on this species.

“You lie, Jedi. Are you afraid?” the commander hissed in what passed for a chuckle. “You should be. Take ‘em.”

 _So much for that,_ Obi-Wan thought, immediately disregarding his half

From that point, it went as smoothly as if they’d rehearsed it. Obi-Wan reached to draw his lightsaber from Qui-Gon’s belt with the Force, igniting it as it flew to his hands, as his master drew his own from under the neck of his cloak, green blade seeming to spring from inside his clothes, and the other padawan shucked off her cuffs and called Qui-Gon’s blaster to her, stunning MalDurzi’s assistant with it almost before it was in her hands and the slaver himself an instant later. She scrambled for the stun collar’s control, first on the Sullustan then on MalDurzi’s body, finding it on the latter and tucking it into her pocket, while the two oldest of Qui-Gon’s “purchases” herded the remainder of the slaver’s stock into a tight little group, the older ones carrying the younger. The three Jedi surrounded them protectively, facing outward. Less than ten seconds had passed.

“Stay together,” Qui-Gon told them all quietly as the hired security hesitated in the face of that flurry of activity.

The tone of the crowd was suddenly different, seeing the blades of two lightsabers bobbing and humming and hearing the commotion they had caused. Their murmuring had an undertone of panic and surprise in it, now that there apparently were indeed Jedi among them. More frantic betting was going on at the back, however, now that the stakes were higher.

The guards rushed them and the crowd fell back. Moments later, they seemed more surprised than disappointed when eleven of the fifteen guards, including their commander, lay dead by their own blaster fire ricocheting from Jedi blades, or stunned by Qui-Gon’s blaster, or maimed from lightsaber strikes. The remainder fled and the crowd backed off again, losers mu

“That’s the trouble with hired help,” the other padawan remarked, grinning tightly. “They don’t stick when the going gets tough.”

“Let us pass and no one else will be hurt,” Qui-Gon told the mob.

The crowd surged for a moment, uncertain, like a thing with its own life, then parted, revealing a narrow avenue leading toward the exit. Jedi and children made their way out of the hangar slowly and cautiously, then ran for all they were worth, the other padawan scooping up a lagging child, dodging down alleyways and between docking bays until they reached their own. “Hatch secure,” the other padawan called as she and Qui-Gon herded the children into the ship. “Nice equipment,” she grinned, tossing Obi-Wan’s cloak into the locker behind the cockpit.

Obi-Wan shut down and disengaged the hangar umbilicals and was cruising out of the docking bay before they’d hit the ground behind them. The good thing about the Outer Rim spaceports, he thought, blasting their ship out of Dschubba’s atmosphere without so much as a fare-thee-well to ground control, was the ease of arrivals and departures. In a few minutes, he warned his passengers they were clearing the system’s gravity well and then the stars slid into the long lines of a preprogrammed hyperspace jump to Coruscant. Obi-Wan had never been so glad to see cold vacuum.

A few moments later, the other padawan reappeared, dropping shakily into the navigator’s station.

“Your master sent me up here to return this,” she said, handing Obi-Wan the blaster she seemed to just realize she was still clutching. She looked a little more the worse for wear, now that they were safe. Her face was flushed and her eyes fever-bright and a little glassy. Her hands shook as she passed the weapon over, butt first, with some distaste. “He’s getting the little ones settled. I’m Rian Brylin.”

He took the weapon from her and flicked on the safety, then stowed it in the weapons locker just inside the cockpit bulkhead. “Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he replied, holding out a hand.

She shook it with a look of surprise. “Master Jinn’s padawan? That was Qui-Gon Jinn?”

“One and the same. Thanks for, ah, covering my ass, shall we say?”

She grinned gamely. “Well, it was a little bare. Cute, but a little bare. I don’t know how you got into those pants so fast.” She looked embarrassed suddenly. “Sorry. I’m running on adrenalin and my mouth got away from me. That was really uncalled for. No offense intended.”

“None taken,” he replied, smiling. “I don’t know how I got into them either. Are you all right?”

“I think so,” she said, not sounding very certain. “If I get out of this damn collar I’ll be a lot better.” She shivered suddenly. “I just wish you two had come along about a year earlier.”

He got out of the pilot’s seat and touched the backs of his fingers to her cheek, pushed her gently back into the navigator’s station when she started to rise. “Sit still. You’re awfully warm. I’ll get you something to eat. You look like you co

“Thank you,” she said faintly, putting her head back against the seat and closing her eyes.

But before he could get out of the cockpit, Qui-Gon appeared with the child Obi-Wan had been holding earlier. “This little one insisted on being taken to you,” his master said, obviously amused. She was holding tight to the Jedi Master until she saw Obi-Wan, then she flung her arms out and strained to reach him. He could feel her tugging him toward her with the Force. Smiling, he scooped her ragamuffin form out of Qui-Gon’s arms.

“That was a very brave and very dangerous thing you did, Jicky,” he told her, squeezing her tight.

“He was gonna hurt you,” she said solemnly.

“And you stopped him. Who told you to do that?”

“Nobody! He was gonna hurt you,” she repeated indignantly, as if that were reason enough and completely self-evident as, Obi-Wan supposed, it was, whether you were three-and-a-half or twenty.

“Well, don’t do it again without telling someone first, all right? You could get hurt. Promise me?”

“Hokay promise, Owie.”

“‘Owie’?” Qui-Gon echoed, raising an eyebrow. Rian snickered a little hysterically.

Obi-Wan actually blushed. “She can’t say my name yet,” he explained, mimicking her indignation. “Let’s go get Rian something to eat, shall we? And you too, if you’re good. And possibly even something for mean Master Jinn as well.” Jicky still in his arms, he sidled past his master and aft to the galley.

“You’re Nadai Kinereth’s padawan,” Qui-Gon said, squatting on his heels in front of Rian, back resting against the bulkhead. He touched her forehead with his palm, then pulled off his own cloak and wrapped her in it. “Until we can get you fed and cleaned up and settled in quarters,” he offered. “What happened?”

“Thank you,” she said tiredly. “Our ship was attacked just off Ammuud a little less than a year ago, I think, on our way back from a mission. We’d gotten passage on a freighter. Pirates thought she looked like a good target. They killed most of the crew, and my master, sold me and the other survivors to slavers. I was traded off to this one about three weeks ago. Thank the Force.”

“Yes. Or we might have missed you.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “I’m sorry about Nadai. He was a good man and he’ll be missed. You both have been already. At least we’ll be bringing one of you home again. And your master is one with the Force.” He knew how little comfort that was.

She nodded, tears starting, and leaned over, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said in a muffled voice, her shoulders shaking. “It’s just relief—”

“And grief,” Qui-Gon added softly, but with certainty. “I don’t imagine you’ve had time for that before now,” he said, rubbing her back soothingly. After a moment, he pulled her onto his knees and into his arms, holding her tightly. “It’s all right, Padawan. It’s all right,” he murmured, rocking her gently as he would have done for his own apprentice. “Let it go. Let it go, Rian. He was your master and your friend and you loved him. It’s fitting to mourn him.”

She tried to fight it, but her stamina was gone and her grief still fresh for having been swallowed for so long. Qui-Gon’s kind words and embrace shattered her control and a great sob forced its way out of her throat, becoming a long wail that filled the small space of the cockpit like something physical. She shook and shivered in his arms for several minutes and Qui-Gon continued to hold her, riding out the storm with her, giving her both an anchor and

Obi-Wan found them like that, a short while later, returning to the cockpit with a steaming mug. He’d taken a few minutes to see their new charges were bedded down comfortably in the converted hold, and that the older ones could keep the younger under control. Most of them seemed frightened and dazed, having been uprooted so many times in the recent past that this seemed just another such event to them. It would be some time before their lives resembled anything normal again. It would be some time for Rian before her life seemed normal, too, he realized, watching her weep in his master’s arms. The brief pang of jealousy he’d had at the first sight of them disappeared almost unnoticed, hearing her misery.

Finally, she gave along shudder and pulled away, wiping her eyes on her sleeve and smiling gamely up at both of them. “Thank you,” she whispered. Qui-Gon set her on her feet, took the mug from Obi-Wan and walked her back to the crews quarters. Obi-Wan, suddenly tired beyond belief and relieved this mission was over, dropped into the pilot’s seat once more and reclined it, intending only to sit for a moment before he saw to feeding the little ones.

Instead, he woke, still in the reclined pilot’s chair, but covered with a blanket, Qui-Gon sitting beside him watching the stars skim by. A quick glance at the chron told him it was several hours later. He sat up with a start and an oath, throwing off the blanket and climbing out of his chair. Qui-Gon caught his arm.

“Sit, Padawan. Everyone is fed but you. I wanted to say a few things to you before I sent you off to your quarters for a meal and some real sleep.”

Obi-Wan sat back in his chair, bracing himself for Qui-Gon’s regular post-mission critique of his performance. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to hear right now, but his master would deliver himself of it when he chose, not when Obi-Wan was ready. _Might as well be now,_ Obi-Wan thought. _Then I can go back to my quarters and lick my wounds over a hot meal. Something to look forward to._

Instead of beginning immediately, Qui-Gon turned away and looked deliberately out the cockpit’s transparisteel and said nothing for several minutes. Obi-Wan held himself very still, waiting out his master’s uncharacteristic silence with some concern. _I can’t have been that awful that he doesn’t know where to start,_ he thought. Finally, Qui-Gon spoke, sounding deeply disturbed, but the words were not what his apprentice expected. “You should know, Padawan, that I wanted very badly to kill that slaver for humiliating you as he did. Then I realized that my treatment of you since the beginning of this mission has not been very much superior to it, and I’m not at all certain—”

“Master,” Obi-Wan interrupted, intending to forestall anything else Qui-Gon might say by reassuring him, afraid of where it might lead in the end, “you were—”

“Let me finish, Padawan. I’m not at all certain that most of what I did to you was necessary. I thought it would be best if we maintained our roles throughout the mission, even in private, but now that seems somewhat extreme to me. I know it was very hard on you—I was very hard on you—and I’m not at all certain why. But that will be a subject for my own meditations, not yours. I want you to know that your conduct was quite extraordinary throughout. I doubt many others would have held up as you did, especially not tonight.” Qui-Gon turned finally to look at his apprentice and there was both pain and regret in his eyes. “You made me proud, Padawan, and you made me ashamed of myself. I apologize for hurting you, and I know I have.” He ran his fingers down Obi-Wan’s braid, twining the ragged end through them. “You must know that you mean a great deal to me, not just as my padawan, but as my friend. I am sorry, Obi-Wan.”

“We both did what we had to, Master,” Obi-Wan said quietly. “No one’s to blame. I am glad it’s over, though.”

“And I, Padawan.” He gave Obi-Wan one last searching look and rose from his seat. Just outside the cockpit, he turned again. “Obi-Wan, when MalDurzi was . . . touching you, what were you thinking, if I may ask? You needn’t answer. It’s just that you were so calm. . . .”

“I was doing the third meditation, Master,” he replied. “‘There is no passion, there is serenity.’” It was not quite a lie.

If Qui-Gon thought that an odd focus, he said nothing of it, only: “I was impressed by your control.”

“Thank you, Master,” Obi-Wan acknowledged with an incline of his head—and a sigh of relief as Qui-Gon finally disappeared aft. He had his own meditating to do as well, after lying to his master like that. Well, it wasn’t a complete lie. He had been doing the third meditation, or at least the part

And wishing the hands touching him were Qui-Gon’s.


End file.
